


easier said.

by fealle



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, F/M, slight nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fealle/pseuds/fealle
Summary: Modern/Corporate AU where Balthus and Byleth are dating.
Relationships: My unit | Byleth/Balthazar von Adalbrecht | Balthus von Albrecht
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	easier said.

**Author's Note:**

> 2nd POV narration. Some NSFW. Events obvs separate from the canon.
> 
> There aren’t a lot of works in this ship so here I am, writing some soft shit for a tiny otp because I’ve never been goddamned lucky with pairings in any fandom

**1.**

First: a goddamned awful summer’s day when, stepping out of the office for the first time in what seems like months, I am blinded by the sunlight as you drop by for lunch with an iced latte in your hands. The colour of your hair is a mint green that looks like candy floss in the heat. 

“You’re out early,” I say in thanks as I take my latte. You shrug. “If you wanna come and eat with me - there’s a diner close by serving good shawarma.” 

You ate already, you say, but you’re more than happy to come by and keep me company for lunch. I don’t need company, I talk back, but you raise your eyebrow and we’re walking towards the shawarma place anyway. “Did you hear me, I mean if you’re busy I’d rather not take up your time.” This is what I’m saying as you order my food because you know exactly what I’ve come to eat here, anyway. Fucking bizarre as shit but oddly heartwarming. 

You don’t eat. I dig into my lamb shawarma and had sauce dripping down my wrists. You, without looking up from the stack of papers you mark, reach to take one of my napkins to wipe my hands. “Thanks.” It occurs to me later that for the nth time this week you paid for my lunch again. It’s a little grating but it’s also a good thing for me since my credit card has gone to hell, and I’m down to the last .25c in my debit card. Maybe you knew that, maybe you didn’t. I’m hoping you don’t, because then this isn’t as difficult to swallow as other times. At least I’m sober right now and not in the drunk tank reeling about the fact that I’d won the fight but lost the war, aka I gotta pay my dues, I’ll pay you back whenever I can, just this time around - 

It’s a familiar refrain. Embarrassing, but uniquely mine. 

A red pen softly makes scratches in the noise of the restaurant and you look up from your papers to say, “Grade 12s have some interesting ideas about immortality.”

“What kind? They’re fucking brats, still, what do they have to say about immortality?” I peer over. “What’s this for?”

“ _Romeo and Juliet,_ ” you say. “It’s all very earnest and simple. This is from one of them: ‘If I am to live forever I must be with someone who can tolerate me for the rest of my life, and in this realization it is both damning and gratifying to find out that there is, or there are, in fact, people duly invested in you for the rest of your life.’ ” 

“That’s very sweet.”

“He’s going through a lot of problems right now,” you say softly. You reach into your bag to pull out a sticker sheet, almost empty, putting a star on the paragraph you particularly liked. “Parents dead, uncle hating him, adoptive family awkwardly fitting into his life.” 

I remember my youth, rather dimly. Up in the mountains, poverty, a sudden windfall, and now running away to another city because you have to, because you need to. What else is there to say. I open up a can of pop and say, “Seems like he’s doing well for someone hurting a lot. Luckily, he has you.”

“Luckily,” you say. A rubric goes on top of the marked paper as you start marking and making notes for your student. “Proximity to safety and security doesn’t guarantee you any form of stability. I can’t help everyone.”

“Nobody said you gotta.”

We go through this conversation on a weekly basis until you get tired of it. I keep saying that if only because I tell that to myself, too, and yet you are here. Ultimately, when the air settles and the world seems ready to shed its affairs by the time it enters spring, you are always, unfailingly there. 

I smell like garlic and onions and goodness. Out of reflex I hold onto your waist when we leave, you don’t protest it, and we keep moving through the crowds, finishing up my latte for dessert as you walk with me back to work. “Do you have plans for tonight?” You ask. 

“No. I got another part-time, though.”

“Oh. That’s news to me.”

“Yeah. Shit’s a bit rough. Lost a few in the bar recently because of - well, you know. And there are other things. Family’s relying on me. A second job seemed necessary.” 

You narrow your eyes in disappointment at that bit about the bars, but the rest you nod to. “I’ll stop by.”

“For what?”

“I’m lonely.”

That is a lie, but I’m no good in parsing your face when you make bold face declarations like that, so I just laugh. “Alright, alright. I finish at 11, if I’m lucky, but if anything else comes up I’ll text you.” 

**2.**

The worst kind of job you can give to somebody who doesn’t got the kind of patience for office jobs is a goddamned office job in an open office area. Call centre. Full time hours, I sell cable, phone, and internet subscription to people and I don’t necessarily enjoy my life, but everybody’s suffering anyway and I’m not sure whether or not continuing to finish my degree is a prudent enough choice. I bartend on the weekends, or at least I used to until I got into a fight. Now I work at a construction place close to downtown which isn’t a bad way to make use of my strength, and it’s full of personalities I jive with a lot better than corporate which just makes me want to kill myself on a regular basis. Sometimes, I dream of punching my boss’ face, and then carefully make sure it doesn’t become a reality. Actually my other job is making sure to stop my seat mate from making that a reality, because Hapi, while being completely less energetic than I am, is also not shy from shanking someone if she has to. Both of us are unhappy at our jobs but at least we’re friends. Hapi is trying to get thru nursing with these hours. I don’t know how she’s juggling all these responsibilities but I’m really proud of her. 

Nowadays the only people who write to me are people out to collect my money for utilities and my landlord threatening to evict me. I showed Hapi my notice. She immediately started tearing it to narrow, rectangular strips so she can use it as a filter.

“Hapi, I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

“Impulses now. Regrets later. We live in this shit city, B.” 

I smoke a regular cigarette because I’m not a goddamned heathen like Hapi is. “Ok, well, when you’re done being a hoot, let me know if you want a smoke.”

“You should teach me how to bartend. It seems like a decent way to make money.”

“If you wear low cut tops you’re definitely gonna make lots in tips, sorry to say.”

“If you’re around as my muscle man there won’t be any ‘sorry to say’. Also I’ll just make money.” 

“True. I’ve kinda sworn it off thanks to being in a fight that last time, but talk to me after my moment of reflection.”

Hapi shows me what she thinks of ‘moment of reflection’ by flipping me off. 

“Listen, Constance is in my apartment building too. I get educated from time to time.” 

—

Before going home I stop by to fill up on some essentials I’ve been postponing. My muscles ache, but it’s good work and I’m not complaining. 

When I get home you’re there. You’re making popcorn. You’ve got your marking all over the table again. My apartment looks suspiciously clean.

“Hey. I didn’t ask you to clean.”

“I can’t mark if your apartment is dirty.” 

“Then don’t go to my apartment?” You always do this. It’s humiliating to a degree. But it’s a good help when I’m too damned tired to do anything else after work. I sit on my chair with a sigh as I dump my groceries on the table: toothpaste, shampoo, razors. Two frozen foods. Something’s on my stove. “Did you cook something else other than popcorn?”

You nod and point to my fridge.

For a while I let you mark papers, wondering how best to address the situation. I’m not good at this. But something’s happening here and I can’t tell if it’s just charity or you just enjoy taking over aspects of my life in ways you wanna be responsible for. It’s a bit difficult for me to parse eloquently. Finally I say, “I’ll pay you back any way you want.” 

“You can shovel my yard during winter.”

“Done.” I lean my forehead against the table. “What about right now, you need raking or some shit?”

“One of my kids has a yard business going on. It’s taken care of.”

“That jock, you mean?”

(Some giant-ass kid was mowing your lawn one time I was there, awkward, wearing a wife beater because I can’t be bothered to do laundry when it’s just your place anyway. He stared at me for a while and finally wondered if this is the first time I’m seeing my wife after leaving her, in which I just stared in confusion until you stepped out and told me to leave him alone.)

“Yes.” A pause. “They’re all jocks.” 

“Well, it’s a new era. Having a diversified skill set is - “ a yawn. “Good for the economy, apparently.”

“I want my kids to remain as children,” you said in frustration. “Not working themselves raw for the sake of a future their families and other responsibilities force them to have.”

I turned my face to you. “That’s pretty intense.” You take out one of the papers to read a quote to me: “Loneliness and an endless frustration comes from not being able to communicate honestly or with genuine feeling in spaces where no certainty of emotional or personal profit is to be taken from.”

“What’s that from?”

“From this kid’s analysis on another paper I assigned to them. He hates his father.”

I rise up from my seat to take a beer from my fridge, confirming the fact that you did make dinner. More than I’d need, in fact. Two giant tupperwares’ worth of what seems like beef stew and meatloaf. I change the beer to wine for you.

“What are you, their therapist?”

“If you’re a kid with a terrible family who else can you turn to?” You flip the paper to the side, attach a rubric mechanically to it. You hesitate over the page. You want to say something more than what the rubric requires but you take your red pen and start making notes regardless, it’s not the time or space. _Loneliness, and frustration._ “I fear I’m losing one of them.”

“What’s up with this one?”

“Too many things on their plate, including a turf war.”

“Well now. That’s dangerous.”

“I keep telling her.” You drink your wine glass in one breath. “I keep telling her.”

“Tell her what?”

“Something better is always possible.”

“Okay. Sure. In what way? Likely? Always? Somewhat likely? Highly likely?”

You glare at me. I shrug. “I know you got your door open to every lost sheep that could fall in, but you can’t spread yourself too thin by trying to save everyone. The best scenario one can hope for is you focus on the kids you know best and the rest of them you hope won’t fall into cracks you keep telling them to avoid. Maybe they’ll listen to you. Maybe they won’t. Either way, it’s a teaching moment.”

Probably not a surprise I end up, somehow, sleeping in the couch despite the fact that you know, it’s my damn house. I think what’s more surprising is waking up with another body in a significantly narrow couch, and it’s hard to breathe and hard to move with something warm and soft weighing your bones down into the worn leather, but that’s fine. I’m not one to complain about it. 

**3.**

We met a long time ago, a lifetime ago, back when you were a new teacher and I was a bartender still, dreading the fact that I have to start work in a call centre in a matter of days. My buddy Yuri is the manager and is predictably busy. Back then you had hair in the shade of forest green. You drank a lot. You tipped generously. When a fight broke out some old man came by and knocked them out by slamming his forehead against theirs in a sharp motion. It made a loud cracking sound overheard from the music and I watched, mesmerized, as I realized this man was actually your father and he’s taking you home because you’re too drunk to drive. Interesting. 

You come back often. We just started talking, naturally. Or rather: I talk, you nod and quietly add what you want. And in another night, when there was a godawful 70s inspired show on stage and I keep glaring at Yuri right across hoping he’d stop that abomination, you gave me your number. 

“If you’re interested,” you said. “It’s nothing serious, after all.” 

Your lips were a nice shade of red. We didn’t make it to my place. A deadbeat car’s an equally nice place to be another container for two bodies desperate for touch. 

—

At first I thought it was a mistake. 

After all, it happens once, twice, multiple times. It’s not until later that I realize you’ve been watching me live: what I do to eat, drive, talk about work. You pay attention to the small things, like what I jokingly complain about, and work to provide solutions. You don’t have to. But it happens, quietly and forcefully the way you think it should work: references for work provided freely. Meals. A loan here and there. Once or twice is fine, until it gets serious enough and rather annoyed, I tell you - “Listen, I’m not looking to be sugared.”

I wasn’t expecting you to get mad. You said: “I want to help you. Don’t question my sincerity just because you’re not used to it.” 

“I’m working to be able to do things by myself, you’re stressing me out by paying shit!”

“I can do it. Let me help. Don’t be an idiot and turn it down. In the end, it allows you to focus on the more important things in your life: repaying loans and continuing on with school or work.”

“... but why? Why would you do that?”

Why indeed. 

Sometimes I wished it was because you took pity on me instead, I can handle a charity act a lot better than someone saying they cared about me because it’s the kind of sincerity nobody has a defence for. What am I supposed to say, I don’t want your help because I can handle it by myself? I can’t handle things by myself. Haven’t been able to for a while, shit’s tough, but I’m not begging, there’s always a way out of your problems no matter what, it’s just that all this time (all this time!) I’ve been operating under the assumption it can be done by myself. Apparently not. 

Had to quit smoking not long after. You didn’t like that, either, so I just do it around Hapi now. (Hapi: “you used to be a stockholder of cigs, B. What happened? Got a girlfriend? ... wait I was just joking. What the fuck, did you really - ?” )

Sometimes I think of the way blue and red and black ink are smudged in between your fingers at the end of the day and I think, maybe it’s not so bad being saved. You have such soft fingers. Softer lips. I overindulge, all the time, take a bite of creamy skin here and a kiss there, and I am rewarded with a pleasant voice: _Again. More. Again._

The way a kid from your class seemed to describe it in a poetry lesson: “A wave does not have to go/looking for god/she is water.”

**4.**

Quit my job, don’t quit my job. 

I ask these things while taking out petals from a daisy, and Hapi comes by and asks, “the fuck are you doing?” So I tell her. Hapi looks deadly serious and starts doing the same. We arrive at the same problem as before: quit job. Don’t quit job. She looks at me. “What does your girlfriend do?”

“Teaching some grade 12s.”

“Oh. Does she like it?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. She’s more a counselor than anything to them, actually, so some days I feel bad.”

“Where does she work?”

“It’s the public school one stop away from our work.”

“Huh. That’s a huge school.”

It is. I vaguely remember, some days, noticing the flood of children coming out of it during the time I’m commuting to my second job, and I can’t help but think how stressed you are over so many souls. Constance taught me, once, when I was driving her to a drama production, that when a girl changes hair colours that means some serious shit is going on. Mint green like candy floss sounds like a serious upgrade to the danger level, though you’d always been so calm.

Perhaps it’s a bad time to bring it up but I stare deep into your eyes as I say, “you should let me help you.”

“.... about what.”

“Anything. Everything.” I lay my head against your chest and feel your fingers combing through your hair. Your body is so warm against mine. “Whatever you want.”

“I don’t like how you said that,” you said softly. “But ‘whatever I want’ - sounds nice.” 

I smile. I pin your wrists over your head with a hand and kiss you. 

_Don’t talk_ , I forgot to say, but it’s easy to be distracted when your thighs are closed around my hips and you moan my name. Think of the sea. Think of an endless stretch of green. 

(end)

**Author's Note:**

> “what about your other WIPs, haru” they’re on hold this social distancing thing got me bad
> 
> Will be xposted to my tumblr/DW (@fealle) eventually.


End file.
